Page 6 of Arise the Queen
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The Púca led the way through a twisty maze of nondescript paths. Gwendolyn tried her best to keep up, even as the terrain grew uneven and treacherous.
After a while, her eyes grew accustomed to the diminished light, but it was still difficult to see what lay ahead, much less what was left behind. Were it not for thepiskies, she would be blind as a mole. The endless gallery of grey was identical to her uncle’sfogous, only far, far more expansive, and now Gwendolyn feared this place was like those tales told by one Sumerian merchant of a netherworld called Kur—a dreadful place below his Zagros mountains, through which the Sumerian dead must traverse seven gates and perform seven trials before arriving at his paradise. Gwendolyn only prayed this realm was not like that one, because she was woefully unprepared for trials of any sort.
She had her Kingslayer, she had her mithril, she had a sack full of Hob cake, but none of these things would assure her survival.
So it was that, despite her best intentions, her emotions veered sharply from anger to fear, then to outrage, for it seemedshe would meet her end in this gloom. And worse—no matter how she tried, her efforts to win the Púca’s favor were proving futile. If she heard one more time that she was a “stupid girl,” she was going to draw Kingslayer and lop off his head!
Theremustbesomereason Málik had sent her to face this trial alone—or she might as well be alone. The silence, like the landscape, was interminable. Every once in a while, the vexing little creature sent her a long-suffering glance over his shoulder. But Gwendolyn wasn’t about to apologize for not allowing him to abuse her ears, particularly when he seemed so keen to hurt her feelings.
Clearly, she had offended him, but that couldn’t be helped.
Gwendolyn needed to think, and she couldn’t do so when he was singing at the top of his lungs. Tired and ill-tempered, having had nothing to break her fast—nor even a bite to eat as she’d filled her sack for the journey—she marched along behind the Púca, worrying one corner of the meal sack.
Tempted as she was to pull it about and thrust in her hand, she stopped herself, remembering only too well what happened to her the last time she’d eaten too much Hob cake. She had slept for days, and what good would it do if she holed up with a sack of cake and ate herself into oblivion?
With a grunt of frustration, she let the sack go, cursing Málik beneath her breath. And meanwhile, where was he?
Seated at the Druid’s table?
Along with Esme and Bryn?
Slurping Stone Soup?
Don’t think about him,Gwendolyn commanded herself.
Don’t.Because, if she dared—and make no mistake, she too-oft dared—she would fall upon her aching rump, right on the cold, wet stone and weep like a babe. And yet, though she refused to shed tears, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for herself.
Esme never meant to join her here. It was a ruse.
And Bryn—her oldest, dearest friend. Was he, too, privy to her plan?
Bryn had always been such a terrible liar. And yet somehow, he’d kept his relationship with Esme a secret, along with the state of Porth Pool.
By now, everyone Gwendolyn cared about and trusted had lied to her or betrayed her on some occasion.
She no longer knew what was true or real.
Struggling to keep up, she stumbled, twisting her ankle, and with a cry of pain, landed on one knee. The blow made her eyes water as they had when she was a child, skinning her knees.
A thousand curses bristled at the tip of her tongue, but she kept them to herself.
After a moment, she rose with a sting in her eye, dusted herself off, rubbing furiously at her leg where she suspected yet another bruise must be forming—a painful reminder that she was all-too human in this strange Fae world.
Gods. This must be hell, she thought, andfie! Her regrets were the foulest ofdeamhans. At the moment, she felt as insignificant as the smallest of ants, and she could hear Locrinus whispering mendaciously at her ear…
If anyone should be called Æmete, it is you.
Gwendolyn swallowed the lump of emotion that rose to choke her.
She didn’t need Locrinus, or Málik, or Esme, or Bryn…
She would accomplish this feat on her own, and she didn’t need anyone… except… she did.
Her gaze lifted to find that the Púca had stopped to wait, saying nothing, only watching. “It’s hard to see,” Gwendolyn confessed.
“Don’t look with your eyes,” he advised, then turned away.
